


Liquid Joy

by appolsaucy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appolsaucy/pseuds/appolsaucy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles sees the flyer on a Thursday and his day gets at least 50% more hilarious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liquid Joy

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this thing](http://appolsaucy.tumblr.com/post/47515414097/omg-i-just-received-the-most-amazing-junk-mail-ever) on tumblr.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles sees the flyer on a Thursday and his day gets at least 50% more hilarious.

“I have to get this for Derek,” he says out loud, and the barista looks at him with a little more judgment than Stiles thinks is probably called for.

“No, you don’t understand,” he insists, and leaves without getting his coffee, gripping the flyer tightly.

Five days later a nondescript box shows up on his doorstep and he whisks it away from his dad maybe a little too gleefully.

The sheriff looks at him suspiciously. “Stiles you’re not buying anything I should know about, are you?”

They stare at each other for a long second, Stiles standing with one foot frozen on the stairs.

“Stiles,” his dad rephrases, looking pained, “you’re not buying anything I shouldn’t know about, are you?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “As if I even have the money for that.” It all goes into repairing his jeep now, except for this one little splurge.

He opens the box in his room and it’s pretty much everything he’s ever hoped for. The bottle is a goofy pear shape that looks like it’s sprouting wings out of one side. Or maybe it’s a crashing wave.  _Liquid JOY_  is painted across the front in a loopy diagonal, the tail of the Y exploding like…like dandelion seeds or something, into the wings/crashing wave of glass.

It’s so beautiful Stiles wants to cry. He gleefully wraps it the multiple copies of the advertising flyer he’d gone back and stolen from the coffee shop.

Derek’s  _face_. It’s going to be hilarious. He’s going to open this ridiculous man-perfume and his ridiculous bushy eyebrows are going to fly up and his  ridiculously manly cheeks are going to blush schoolgirl-red. Everything about this is awesome.

***

Everything about this is not awesome.

“What the hell is this,” Derek demands, definitely not blushing.

Not even a little bit.

“It’s pheromone perfume!” Stiles cackles.

No one else laughs.

“Oh, come on,” Stiles says. “This joke should seriously explain itself. Pheromone perfume. For a werewolf.” He points wildly at Derek. “It  _helps you make friends_.”

Scott chuckles, but it sounds confused and is clearly a pity laugh. Stiles does not need pity laughs.

“I’m not taking this,” Derek finally says. He tosses it back at Stiles, who scrabbles to catch it against his stomach and not let it crash to the floor, because there are jokes and then there are death wishes.

“What!” Stiles squawks when he rights himself. “You won’t even accept my gift? Rudy McRuderson.”

“It probably smells like skunk,” Boyd comments, and Stiles huffs indignantly.

“Does this look like skunk to you?” he demands, brandishing the bottle. “It’s awesome. It probably smells like love and college acceptance letters and, and winning the lottery! It’s probably  _magical_.”

Oh, now they laugh. Of course.

“Just throw it away, Stiles,” Derek commands.

And the thing is, Stiles knows it’s stupid. It’s supposed to be stupid. But it’s even more stupid that no one is going along with him, because,  _yeah_ , it was a gag gift, but it was still a  _gift_ , and Derek is kind of being an ungrateful dick about it. Stiles sniffs and huffs and stands to leave, and Erica laughs and leans over and hugs his legs and says, "Stiiiiiiles, we're sorry, come on, we were just kidding."

“No,” Stiles declares, “you all are clearly undeserving of my presence and my special social toilette,” and he gets his things and leaves.

They all laugh him out the door.

***

So he takes it home and drops it in a drawer and tries not to think about it, until a few days later when Erica comes by and says, "Look, baby, we're sorry we made fun of you. Lydia's throwing a party tonight and we want you to come with us. Let us make it up to you." She winks. "You could even wear your special spray."

"Oh sure," Stiles sniffs, "now you want the Stilinski bouquet," but he drives to the party that night anyway.

And when he's in his car, sitting outside Lydia’s house, he pulls the bottle out of his pocket and turns it over in his hands, because he knows she was joking but, you know, that would just serve them right if he went in there and it was awesome. Or if it was awful and they all choked and writhed in agony as the scent pounded their sinuses to smithereens. He'd be okay with that, too.

So, feeling only slightly stupid, Stiles sprays a dignified little spritz onto his wrist and dabs it on his neck like he'd seen somebody do at some point, probably on TV. Somebody who was definitely cool definitely did it that way.

And he walks into the party, half-wondering if anybody is even going to notice, when suddenly Erica is plastered against his side. "Hey Stiles," she croons in his ear, which is less creepy now that he's used to it, but still pretty fucking creepy. "You seem...different tonight. Really good. You feel great," and Stiles says, "Um."

Suddenly Boyd is behind her, wrapping his hands around her waist, which Stiles is super grateful for until Boyd inhales loudly, eyes locked on Stiles' throat. Stiles boggles for a second before he says, "Well great to see you guys, I've gotta..." and hightails it to the kitchen.

Except Isaac is in the kitchen, and Stiles is okay with Isaac, but he was kind of hoping for Scott, to be honest. He joins Isaac at the counter and knocks shoulders with him while he starts to pour himself a drink, which he drops all over the counter when Isaac grabs his arm and yanks it to his nose. Stiles gets out "What the f--" before Isaac rubs Stiles' wrist all over his face and Stiles gets the  _fuck out of there_.

"Stiles, I just want to be your friend!" he hears Isaac call out sadly, but the train has left Crazytown and Stiles is on board.

He finds Scott downstairs in the basement, of course, sitting by some guy with a tambourine who probably thinks he's making music or something. Stiles drags Scott up over to a wall because  _this shit is bananas_.

"Scott," he hisses, "this shit is bananas."

 Scott's eyebrows crinkle. "Nah, bro, that song hasn't played for like...half an hour."

"Oh thank God." Stiles sags against the wall. "I thought it had you, too."

"What had me? It's all safe here, man, I've got your back." Scott smiles widely and Stiles nods, relaxed, relieved, because of course Scott's got him, Scott's always got him.

"So what the hell is going on?" Stiles asks.

"I dunno, but we're in it together," Scott says, and wraps Stiles in a huge hug.

"Uh," Stiles says, patting Scott on the back briefly. "Totally, bro."

But the hug doesn't end.

"Scott. Man. Buddy."

"I just love you, man," Scott says into his shoulder, and this is ground they've covered before but  _not at house parties_.

"You just make me so happy," Scott continues. "Like, you bring all this...like all this  _joy_  to my life. Come over here and--hey, Brandon, hey, can you write a song about my bro here? 'Cause like, everything is so great about him, even his knees are great, see? Can you write a song about Stiles' knees?"

"Oh my god," Stiles says, and elbows Scott in the head as he makes a break for it.

He dashes up the stairs, ignoring the shouts as he knocks people's drinking elbows, and cases the first floor rapidly. Derek's here, he knows Derek's here, he'd never let them all host a party without supervising from somewhere like a creepmaster extraordinaire. He's not on the first floor, though, so Stiles runs up to the second level before anyone else in the pack can spot him.

He dives to Lydia's bedroom, thankfully free of couples, and slams the door behind him, locking it. He races to the wall and jerks the window open, sticking his head outside. "Derek!" he shouts.

A dark shape lands on the roof in front of him and Stiles (shrieks) startles loudly, knocking his head against the frame. "Shit, shit," he says, "Get in here, oh my god."

He's babbling before Derek's even all the way inside the window, waving his hands and breathing hard, trying to get everything out coherently.

"They just. Derek, your whole pack is fucking crazy, I think it's my fault. I used that spray, I knew I shouldn't have done that--God, pheromones, what was I  _thinking_ , you're fucking  _werewolves, oh my god_."

"Stiles," Derek says, stepping into his space. He grabs his shoulders, halting Stiles' pacing, but in a way that makes his left leg waggle embarrassingly in front of him for a minute. God, Stiles can't even crisis right.  _This is really serious._

 "You used the spray? Even though I told you to get rid of it?" Derek demands.

Stiles nods frantically. "Derek, oh god, what if it's actually magic, what if I poisoned them?"

Derek shakes his head sadly. "It's probably too late."

"Too late?" Stiles yelps. "What does  _that_  mean??"

 Derek grips his shoulders tighter, and steps forward, dipping his head down to look at Stiles through his eyelashes. "They can't help themselves, Stiles."

Stiles gulps. "Th-- They can't what?"

"They can't help themselves," Derek repeats, dropping his gaze to Stiles' neck, then back up to his eyes. Stiles gulps. "You're just such a...cool guy."

 "I'm such a... What." Stiles blinks wide eyes. He looks down at Derek's hands on him in confusion, then back up to his face. "Oh. You. You  _fuckers_!"

 Derek stares at him intently for a half second longer. Then the corner of his lip twitches.

"You bastards!" Stiles shouts. He shoves at Derek’s chest, knocking him backward. Derek shifts with it lazily, falling back a step, grinning like a  _complete fucking asshole_.

 And that's when the bedroom door flies open and the obnoxious fucking werewolves trip through, falling all over themselves laughing. At Stiles.

"You ungrateful dicks!" he says, crossing his arms in a huff. "I thought I poisoned you. I was worried!"

"But Stiles," Isaac gets out between snorts of laughter, "won't you just  _please by my friend_?" This sets off another round, and Stiles glares at them grumpily.

"Does this mean you don't want to hear the song Brandon wrote about your knees?" Scott giggles.

Stiles glares at him for a second, then pouts. "No. I earned that song. You owe me a song about how amazing my knees are. And you have to sing it yourself or it doesn't count.

"The rest of you are still assholes," Stiles announces. "Now get out of my room." He glares harder, daring any of them to point out it's not, in fact, his room. They leave without saying anything, and Stiles is not going to acknowledge that it might be because Derek is standing behind him.

"You, too, Captain McDouchebag," he grumps once the others have left. "You're supposed to frown on these kinds of shenanigans."

Derek raises an eyebrow. "You mean shenanigans like the hair dye you swapped for Isaac's shampoo last month? Or like when you filled Boyd’s car with popcorn? Or like when you got me a perfume that mocked my race and personality?"

Things sound so much shittier when Derek says them. And he might be right, but Stiles isn't willing to give up his huff yet. He earned this tantrum. He plops himself angrily down onto the edge of Lydia's bed.

"I'm not speaking to you," he announces. "Until at least next week."

Derek huffs quietly, more amused than Stiles feels is justified. But all Derek does is walk over to him quietly. And lean over him, quietly. Until he's leaning, quietly, right over the crook of Stiles' neck.

"If it makes you feel any better," Derek rumbles, "I was wrong."

Stiles swallows, then manages, "Do tell."

Derek shifts minutely, not touching Stiles, but not touching him in a way that forces Stiles to feel the heat of his breath on Stiles' shoulder and calls up vivid fantasies of stubble on the sensitive skin below his ear.

"It doesn't smell bad," Derek says into his ear, his voice deep and thick.

Stiles clenches his hands, heart in his throat. "What does it smell like?"

Derek inhales slowly, almost silently, but Stiles can feel it.

"Anticipation."


End file.
